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Wendy Nipas Jun 2020
The straw that broke the camel’s back
A straw quite ordinary
Its weight did not mean very much
Not challenging to carry

But even though this measly straw
Was worthless on its own
It had a value and a strength
That was only timely shown

The straw itself, pretentious not
Had knowledge of its role
Quite useless was it by itself
This it could not control

But when it was allowed to be
A part of bale or heap
Its value all at once appeared
To be no longer cheap

And so one day to its surprise
It really didn’t know
It was the one who did the trick
Before anyone could say ’**!’

Wendy Nipas
confirm your love
she talked

i asked how ?
she said confirm

i do not have  enough
knowledge to swim

at oceans of your love
you know i am not sailor

or captain of navy of your heart
i am only one who likes your smart

i am not that pilot of planes swarm of your head
which knows the truth or who making fault

i am only wondering of your look
i am not farmer who grows the plants

of your eyes which are growing of your look
spreading fruits of hope and love
at my heart

i am only visiting the rose of your cheeks
i am not humours of your sweet souls

i am only remarking the sweet berry of your lips
i am diving at the ocean of your love

save me, help ,help
the love is the great ocean who has severe waves striking each other. the lover has a magic which can control with the other
Lauren M Jun 2019
Sandbox constructs, talk to me.
Play to me.
Dancing straw, pull on the wind,
give color and shape, give name.
I will be straw too one time, then many times,
and will dance with the straw in the wind.
These are joyful times, all alone, no interference. No you.

Mouse you sneaks in the sandbox,
chews on my straw and nests in my sand.
In possession of some key.

(I want to ask about the key, but I can’t.
I am supposed to be made of straw.)

Perturbed, I chase you out.
My world of sand and straw is too fragile for your beating heart.
It will fall apart, will be rubbed raw and threadbare.
But you sneak in again,
and look at me as if I am not straw,
and the ground as if it is not sand
but solid earth, rich and full.

Clearing the board I start over.
Drive you out
and begin to map out the pattern of this cloth.
Time begins to unspool, following its slow track.
Joyful in this beginning, this gradual awakening.

I never know when (or if) you’re going to appear.
So often the game plays out without a hitch,
or you appear so late that it makes no difference.
But I hear your heartbeat now: the rapid thudding,
and know you are here.
A mouse nuzzling through the straw,
invading the gentle morning of this world
when all may be ruined, all may be averted.

Bold, undisguised you,
and I, perfect shaft of damp straw;
it does not fool you.
Discovered at the worst moment,
tender and caught.
You, unruffled by the wind, realizing the position you’re in.
Realizing the position I’m in:
holding all the keys but unprepared to use them.

You have your own plans and ideas.
You dance around me,
playing provocateur, trying to make me
show my hand, my key.
I pretend I don’t know what you’re up to.
I hope you lose interest and give up.
Hope a chance wind sweeps you up,
like a great swell from the sea,
and I never see you again.
Hope you suddenly doubt yourself, blinking,
finally convinced by my damp posing,
my mute bafflement and loyalty to the wind
and wonder, isn’t this straw?

Dare I play your game?
Dare I nod to your tune?

I use one of my keys.
Walk through a door that shouldn’t open,
you at my heels, all eager to see backstage,
to see the actor who plays me.

You already know what you have known since you saw my face.
The same face you have seen dancing in and out
of pale replicas of borrowed worlds.

And finally I let you hear from my lips
what you have suspected the whole time.
That I am not the straw or the sand or even the wind.
That I know you aren’t either.
That I know that you know.
That yes, it was a character and it was a role.
That it was a game I play, usually alone.

“It was just for light fun and idle amusement,” I say.
“Nothing was at stake.
So why the sabotage?”

Then, in spite of our twin hearts,
I see how different you are from me.
What calms me enrages you.
What worries me soothes you.
What I call “light fun and idle amusement”
you call “life and death.”
“Everything was at stake,” you say.
You say, “this world is full, full to the brim. People just like you.”

Don’t you realize where you are?
Look around, it is a world of sand and straw
blowing in the wind.
Colm May 2019
Straw hemmed down
Crackling beneath collapsed feet
And folded underneath
Like a prayer
I'm bound to you and to this moment
Like a song
I wait for the inevitable record scratch
And the crackling repeat
Of whenever we roll
Over the breaking backs of the strawfall down
On the bed we made
Where our young bodies first did meet
Star BG Dec 2018
Scarecrow stands in wait
watching cross fields of florets.
"Beware birds of black,
begone and don't come back.
For I am mighty scarecrow.
Standing guard catching breeze in hat."
StrawJack , intoned to crow brat.

Straw man stands in wait,
taking job seriously in straw abode.
With pride loving his Mother Earth,
he dances with wind in mirth.
He's Friend to all who bloom
and bells that croon.
Spending company with
passing clouds and moon.
inspired by Tadios Yeab Thank you
"Depression" #writtenviaVenjencieArnold
When your voice becomes raspy & dry with words that are empty, without meaning, Your eyes still see all,
Your ears still hear all,
Oh, close my eyes goodnight like you would to a soul that says goodnight, Stuff my ears so they may not hear the cries.

Oh lay my body down so it may not fall, I'm paralyzed without the slightest motion, in the same token I'm filled with boundless emotion, Movement of fears, Movement of tears, Oh lay my body down so it may not fall.

I feel as if when you look at me I've become less than the puppet that I once was, I feel as if when you look at me you see a body stuffed with straw, Oh lay this scarecrow down so it may not fall.

I no longer hold shape, I'm bland without color, I'm unable to stand on my own, I used to be loved by so many that I've known, Only if my mind could follow my body's steps... no memory recall, Then I won't know if you choose to let my body fall.

My eyes hollow like those of the hollow stuffed men, My heart is beating, I'm still bleeding, I'm full of emotion like an explosion in the ocean. I have memory recall, My ears still hear all, My eyes still see all,  Oh lay a penny on my eyelids to secure them that may stay closed, Stuff my ears so they may never again be exposed.

Lay me down with the worn out scarecrows or where the Lilly's grow, You no longer know that I use to be a human body with a brain, heart & soul, Oh just lay this body low, Maybe God will soon take my soul.

~SacredInkedBlood ©Oct042018 Venjencie Clifton Arnold
Sometimes people treat you like you don't exist because depression makes you feel the need to be invisible. Sometimes with depression others still know you exist but your depression makes you feel like they care much less notice. You become as if your body is just a shell or nonexistent but you feel every emotion that exists.
Danial John Feb 2018
Please, just please
Put me out of my misery
I can't stand existence
I didn't ask for this ****

Why, oh why, must I be
Put me out of my misery
Slit wrist or a noose around my neck
I'm almost ready, but not yet

A straw, a brick
A hug, a kiss
Poisoned thoughts
I've had enough of this

Broken backs, broken dreams
You have no idea what I've done, and what I've seen
I cannot end it, because I deserve this pain
I'm a loser and hate the game

Purge my soul
Break my bones
Leave me broken
Or send me home
Tatiana Oct 2017
There are a series of drafts
that blow fiercely through the gaps
of the home of creativity.
Cooling the efforts
of the imaginative fire,
so that it no longer grows or glows.
The home's strength is tested
by its own scarecrow,
who should be out with the crops
to discourage other birds,
that can stop new growth.
But the straw-man persists
with his unequal arguments.
Tampering with emotions
inciting the fire to risky proportions.
And so the home of creativity
burns itself down.
Because it's walls are too weak
that some straw-stuffed clown
can overstep it's boundaries
and raze it to the ground.
© Tatiana
I firmly believe that creativity can be a great strength, but it can also be a great weakness. I think self-doubt or insecurities that create a distorted perception of how one sees their own work, that they refute the validity of what they've done based on work of others that aren't even doing the same thing as them, are part of it. Also, the idea of burn-out in response to strong emotons or inspiration add to that fragility.
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